


Taking Orders

by Shade (FStephens)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 06:37:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8317624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FStephens/pseuds/Shade
Summary: Bond loses himself in his missions. Moneypenny knows how to bring back the man when the monster takes control. But who needs who more?





	

Moneypenny’s fingers stilled on the keyboard, the familiar rhythm of her work faltering as he came in. It was hard not to notice when he entered a room, especially after a mission. The violence inherent in every molecule of his body made the air tremble around her. Or maybe it was her instincts, that natural reaction to someone… something… like him.

A beast. A monster.

Oh, he wore the finest suits and had the perfect manners, almost. Little things gave him away.

Bruises mottled the skin along his jaw, the marks of a beating, although she doubted he had come off worse in it. He held his shoulder carefully as he closed the door.

“Moneypenny,” he said. “Taking dictation?” The emphasis was bitter, cynical and designed to wound. There was no humour today, no flirting, nothing of that false carelessness which he usually displayed. It had been bad then. “He’s in?”

“I’ll see if he has a moment for you. Take a seat, James.”

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He flinched at the sound of his name, so subtle that only she would see it. Then he prowled back and forth across the room, his eyes taking in every detail, every possible threat, every angle of escape. Because that was what he did. Oh yes, it had been bad. He was twisted tight, a wire about to snap.

She picked up the phone, waited, never taking her eyes off him. “Sir, 007 to see you.”

“Send him in,” ‘M’ said. Nothing more than that.

“In you go,” she said brightly, and he went without a word. Good at obeying orders. But then she knew that better than anyone. It was her job to know that.

She waited, idly typing the report that she had been working on and listening. It didn’t take long. Raised voices, yelling, the sounds of testosterone unleashed, and a smash. The door jerked open and ‘M’ stormed out.

“Deal with him,” he growled. “I’m needed at the Palace.”

Moneypenny let him go. She understood this new ‘M’ too well. He played the boss, but he wasn’t. Mallory could never replace Olivia and they both knew it. He needed her. Just as Olivia had. Just as the previous ‘M’s had needed Olivia when she’d been Moneypenny.

We live a life of codes and secrets, she thought. It felt almost sacrilegious to use their real names, even if only in her own mind. That was why she made a point of doing it. To their faces if necessary. It humanised them. That was important. That was her job. It amused her that they all still referred to her only as Moneypenny. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised.

She had learned from the best.

Rising from the desk, she locked the computer with a quick flick of two keys and straightened her fitted skirt.

She could hear him the moment she entered the room, moving, breathing, emanating the same tension she’d seen in him when he arrived. Bond was their best. And their worst. He had to do terrible things, inhuman things. It left marks, bruises, scars… ones that couldn’t be seen as well as the ones that could.

“James?”

He turned, faster than the eye, one of those warriors from ancient legends or fairytales. The monster filled his eyes and he opened his mouth in a snarl. Part of her wanted to run. Instincts again. But she wouldn’t. Not from him. Never from him.

“James,” she said, more gently. Gentleness undid him. He shuddered. She took a step towards him, and another, closing the door behind her. The click was very loud, very final. His gaze dragged its way up her long legs, across her body and to her face. He took her in and his hunger made her shiver.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “Not with me.”

“No? Where else should I be? I belong here.”

“Then I should go.”

He started towards her, intent on the door, but she didn’t step aside. An immovable object to his unstoppable force. He’d have to go through her and as soon as he realised this, he froze, within arm’s reach, looming over her like a giant. She shivered, in his shadow, but not so he could see it.

“I’d take you apart,” he said, his voice so cold. “There are a dozen ways I could kill you right now.” The threat was empty. Not because he lied. He never could lie to her. But he wouldn't do it. All the same, she swallowed hard. To say something like that, especially to her, especially here, he was so close to the edge.

His hand touched her face, strong, calloused, lethal. He stroked her jawline, wrapped fingers around her throat, squeezed. She looked him in the eyes and willed him to stop. It was a practiced glare and one which she knew he couldn’t defy. His grip loosened before it became dangerous. But it didn’t go away.

It felt like he was clinging to her rather than being a threat, the way a drowning man clings to a rope.

“Is this what you want?” she asked. “Really?”  She touched his face in turn, stroked his cheekbone with her thumb. “Let go, James. That’s what you need now, isn’t it? To let go.”

He shook, trembling at her words. And he took a step back, released her, his hands falling to his sides. Moneypenny nodded, satisfied and then lifted herself up on her toes so she could kiss him.

It was messy and savage, teeth and tongues and a winding together of bodies. His arms around her were unyielding, hers in his hair raked his scalp and ground him against her. She claimed him, branded him. He was hers, through and through and he needed to remember that. She had to make him remember. He was lost, adrift. She was the anchor.

She broke away, leaving him breathless, his eyes bewildered with longing.

“I’ll take you apart,” she promised. “And put you back together again. All you have to do is ask.”

“Moneypenny,” he said, his voice a groan. She thought of him in the field, the cold murderer, the suave charmer, the monster. He’d killed, and gotten people killed. He had more corpses in his past than anyone. Although others had the blood on their hands. People like her.

Time to be firm. He needed boundaries. He needed to be controlled again, to accept her as an anchor. “Ask, James. You know what to say.”

He hung his head. His hands shook and he closed them into fists. Terrible, deadly fists. There were so many ways he could kill her. Right now. It would only take moments. She knew it and so did he.

All that saved her was the need in him. The need only she could slake.

He dropped to his knees so heavily she felt the floor beneath her jump.

“Please,” he said, tilting his face up to look at her. “Please, Moneypenny.”

She smiled. She couldn’t help it. “You’re so good, James.”

He didn’t believe her. She could see that in his cold blue eyes. He loathed himself. He knew the monster intimately, knew what he was. But she was hope. She was redemption. He just didn’t think he deserved it.

Perhaps he didn’t.

“I need…” he said but his voice trailed off. He didn’t know what he needed. So lost, so broken, her James.

“I know what you need. Trust me. Undress.”

He never took his eyes off her as he shed his clothes, heedless of the expensive suit and silk tie, the Saville row tailoring. He tore it off his body and still managed to stay on his knees. For her.

He was beautiful. There was no other way to describe him. A piece of art. A wonder. His body made to kill, designed for death and destruction. The perfect hunter. His musculature would have inspired Michelangelo. Every time she saw him like this she had to fight to keep control of herself, to avoid throwing herself on his mercy and revealing her weakness for him.

That wasn’t what he needed from her. That wasn’t why they were here, in this office, on a priceless rug, surrounded by antiques and state of the art technology. In front of a view that surveyed the whole city. It was the heart of power, its very soul.

Olivia had once told her that this was where they belonged. ‘M’ might be nominally in charge, but Moneypenny kept everything running, pulled the strings. Controlled it all. Power came from complex places.

She knew all about power.

Moneypenny moved, circling him while he stayed fixed to the spot. He bowed his head as she moved out of sight, only looking up when she stopped again.

“My poor James,” she whispered and reached out, grabbing a fistful of his hair and twisting hard. He hissed, baring his teeth, but he didn’t lash out as he sometimes did. His pupils flared, huge and dark, eating up the blue of the iris. But she didn’t release him. Instead, she pulled, dragging him up onto his feet.

Instead she grabbed his shoulders and turned him around, his back to the desk, his legs off balance. She kissed him again, taking her time now as she forced him back, step by step. He made a noise deep in his throat, a growl and a whimper combined, a noise of abject surrender and his hands slid up her arms, across her shoulders, not with any strength, but with urgency, with desperation.

He bumped against the edge of the desk and she pressed in against him, taking what she wanted, what he wanted her to take. He rippled with need and she heard his heartbeat. It reverberated through her body. Fast and desperate, surging with adrenaline.

One hand closed on his erection, thick and long, perfectly formed like everything about him. He moaned into her mouth and she grabbed the back of his neck with her other hand, holding him in place so she could kiss him thoroughly while at the same time she stroked his cock.

He came undone in front of her, gasping, panting, her name on his lips, his body hers completely. This killing machine, this monster, this creation of a bastard industry that made a man forget he was a human being, with the capacity for so much more than death. Another stroke and he’d come, he’d fall to pieces.

“I’ll take you apart,” she promised. “But not yet. Understand? You can’t come yet. It’s about control, James. Who has control?”

He struggled to find the words. “You do. You know, you do.”

She smiled at him, struggling for what she promised, for some small measure of control, to simply keep from coming as she ordered. “I like to hear you say it.”

“You have control, Moneypenny.”

She squeezed the base of his cock hard, and he almost sobbed out loud.

“Back on the desk,” she told him. “Move now.”

He scrambled to obey, pulling her with him when she didn’t release him. He was so strong, so ridiculously strong.

And he was hers.

He fell back on the desk, knocking papers and the various ornaments ‘M’ favoured aside. She’d worry about that later. Or maybe she’d leave it for ‘M’ to tidy up. See if Mallory liked to see the aftermath and deal with it. She wondered, momentarily if he’d challenge her on it. But she doubted it. The man was a coward, playing politics and manipulating his way in here.

Let him tidy it up then. Let there be chaos and bodily fluids. Let him see what it meant to be in control of an agent like this, to keep them sane, to keep them human.

Her hands fell to his chest, grazing the scars that mottled his skin. She hesitated over the bullet hole in his shoulder.

_I gave him that_ , she thought and the old regret was back, sucking the air from her lungs, making her eyes sting. She froze, her hand hovering over his skin, feeling the warmth that emanated from him.

He shifted uncomfortably beneath her and she pulled back, desperately dragging the cold shell right around herself again. She didn’t have time for that. It was past. Long past. It had brought her here.

And him too, she supposed. That and a thousand other things.

Bond looked up at her, studying her carefully and she knew she’d lost the moment, broken the spell.

“Moneypenny?” he said, the deep growl rumbling through the pit of her stomach, turning her inside out. She cared too much about him. And she couldn’t. It was too hard. Knowing him. Knowing him too well.

“Did I say you could speak?” she snapped, more angry with herself than with him.

_Regret is unprofessional_ , Olivia used to say.

She used to say a lot of things. Many of them about Bond, none of them complimentary.

Moneypenny sat down in Mallory’s chair, the leather cradling her. She gripped the arms and stared at him, still sprawled on the desk, watching her in return.

“Come here, 007,” she told him and he obeyed. Not James, not this time. He knew what that meant too and responded to it instantly, too well trained to ignore it. Time to be firm, time to be in charge. Without instruction, he took up position in front of her on his knees, his hands at his side, head bowed. Like a supplicant. He was doing better at this than she was right now.

She hated him for that. Just a bit.

“Orders?” he asked. Did she detect a slight trace of amusement in that one word? He was putting her back on track. Telling her what he needed. Or maybe just desperate for her not to stop. He needed orders. That was the deal.

“They tell me you’re a cunning linguist,” she said, leaning back. “Prove it.”

Another time he would have laughed and made a quip of his own. Something filthy, because he had a gloriously filthy mind. But not now. This was different, this time. Something had changed. He drew in a shaky breath and leaned towards her. His hands slid between her knees, drawing them apart and let him, marvelling at the paleness of his skin against hers, at the way his touch made her muscles jump. Slowly and surely, he caressed her, moving up along her thighs, bending his lips to follow his fingers. Every move was studied and determined, every flutter of breath, lips and fingers against her designed to heighten the next.

Oh, he was good. She knew that. She always forgot just _how_ good. It didn't seem possible, until the next time.

 She stayed silent and joyed the feeling of his touch, his hands manipulating her just as she manipulated him. Carefully, he lifted her forward, slid the skirt up higher and slipped his fingers beneath her underwear. She fought to stay still, not to thrust towards him as she longed to do. His fingers brushed her mound, playing with the sensitive skin and hair, and then he pushed one finger deep inside her. She sucked in a breath and felt herself clench down on him, so ready for this, so eager. How did he do this too her? She knew that his field skills weren't just violence. This was part of it too. It had to be. And nobody did it better.  His lips, still playing with the inside of her left thigh, drew up into a knowing smile.

Damn him. She couldn't let him get away with that.

“Stop messing around,” she told him harshly. “I gave you an order.”

Somehow she got the impression he was still smiling, but this was her game, her orders. He slipped out of her, pausing to lick the finger completely clean as if it was covered in honey and turned those blue eyes up on her. Less monster now. More Bond.

And where was James?

“You were going to give me orders,” he reminded her.

Moneypenny narrowed her eyes. “Maybe I should just call Q up here. He has all sorts of interesting toys and he knows how to use them.”

“Q’s a boy,” he growled.

“No he isn’t,” she corrected him. “He’s a complex and fascinating being. Smart is sexy, remember. Very sexy. Endlessly inventive too, I promise you. How inventive can you be, James? Will we have a competition?”

An image filled her mind of the two of them together, Q pale and lean, Bond hard muscles. She rearranged them, this way and that, imagining all the possibilities, while warmth pooled inside her. Q couldn’t hold out the way Bond did. She loved the way he pushed his glasses back on his nose as if shocked when she teased him. The way he blinked at her when she took those glasses off him, his dark eyes very large, and so easy to read. She imagined his reaction if she brought him here now and suggested all the things she was thinking. The way his Adam’s Apple bobbed nervously in the moments before he nodded in agreement. Oh yes, maybe she should get Q up here and see what he’d make of Bond right now. And what James would make of him.

He grabbed the sides of her briefs and pulled them roughly down.

“Watch it,” Moneypenny warned him, not quite in jest now. “Or you’ll be paying for a new set. They’re expensive.”

“It would be worth it,” he replied and threw them aside. They soared across the room to land on the coat rack by the door. They hung there, a lacy confection. Maybe she should leave them there for Mallory as well.

She almost laughed out loud but at that moment, James’ mouth closed on her, tongue diving in where the finger had been. He licked her, exploring every dip and fold, determined and eager. She squirmed to get closer, to shift her skirt up out of the way and came down to feel the cold leather on her arse cheeks. His hot breath bathed her, the perfect contrast. His hands moved again, an artist’s hands, massaging her thighs, teasing the most sensitive areas. He found her clitoris, flicking it with his tongue and then pressed closer. He licked slowly, steadily and the sucked on it, alternating all the sensations while one of his fingers curved into her again. He had her g-spot in moments, caressing her inside and out. He was relentless. A second finger joined the first, pressing deeper.

She was helpless. It took only moments before she came, crying out desperately as she ground herself against him. He didn’t stop until the last ripples died away, the last gasps faded and she fell still again. When she opened her eyes, she saw him watching her again, waiting. He missed nothing with that icy gaze.

Oh right, orders. That was what this was about, wasn’t it? Give him the orders and let him decompress. That was all this was.

She grabbed his hair again, saw the pain and anticipation in his eyes as she pulled him up to her face and kissed the taste of herself off him. His tongue filled her mouth now, deep and determined, the way he had gone down in her, the way he did everything. His hands on her breasts made her give another desperate cry, the way he held them, flicked his thumbs over the erect nipples. She didn’t recall the blouse coming undone or how he’d managed to get her bra out of the way but that hardly mattered. He was wild against her, burning with need, but no longer the need to hurt or destroy, to kill. This need was no less primal. She knew it too well.

“James,” she said, her voice wavering only a little which was remarkable. She bit into his shoulder because she couldn’t think of anything else to say and she felt him stiffen at the sting of her teeth in his skin. She’d had a plan. What was the fucking plan? “Lie back on that desk.”

As he obeyed her, she shed the rest of her clothes and shook out her long black hair. Sprawled on Mallory’s desk, he looked positively wanton. It was the type of image you wanted to capture forever in your mind, to hold onto when it all got to much and you didn't know why you did the job any more, just so it would remind you. She climbed up beside him and settled herself over his face again. He fell to work at once without instruction and she rode her way into another orgasm, with his tongue in her vagina, her juices smearing his face and his hands on her arse, thumbs teasing the perineum and anus.

That reputation was well earned. She wondered which of his many lovers had schooled him in that but thought that perhaps she could guess. It didn’t matter now. They were gone. She was the constant.

The phone started ringing. She kicked it off the desk, affronted at the interruption.

At the noise, he leaped beneath her, his coiled muscles startling and reacting before the thought reached his brain. Animal in action, he flipped her beneath him, although whether to protect or dominate she wasn’t sure.

Not until she locked eyes with him again and saw the desperate need in them.

“You don’t disappoint,” she told him. “Now, fuck me. But don’t come until I tell you, understand?”

He nodded and at the same time his cock found her entrance. Slick and ready and willing. He drove slowly and steadily into her, not too fast, giving her time to adjust to his girth and length. Gifted in so many ways, she thought and almost laughed again. Anyone else would have just ploughed into her at this stage, but not James. He took his time, careful not to hurt her.

That thought jarred. He never hurt her. Not intentionally, although it could be a near thing sometimes. Here was a man who killed without compunction, could and would torture another human being, or withstand torture—although she was relatively sure he got off on that anyway. But he never hurt her.

Deep inside her, he paused, hanging over her like some kind of golden god. His eyes had that distant, zoned out look which told her there was no monster left, no Bond, just him. Just the man he was with her. The man who would soon be gone again, subsumed in missions and violence and death.

She was the one to move, to begin to thrust against him because she couldn’t stand it any longer. She kissed his mouth until he returned the kiss and slowly, they moved together. She could feel it building again, the need to come, the burning, undulating sensation of bliss just out of reach and the faster they moved, the nearer they got. She panted his name, felt herself build and crest. Her body ripples around him and he groaned, his expression showing how hard he was fighting to obey her.

“Come for me, James,” she ordered in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere else. It sounded far more in control than she felt.

His whole body stiffened and he cried out, a desperate, agonised sound. He convulsed with it and it tore a word out of him, just one word, one impossible word.

“Eve!”

Her orgasm peaked again, the sound of her real name, her own name, pushing her clear and making the world spiral and buck. As she came back down to earth, he kissed her face, her neck, her cheekbone. He covered her in kisses and wrapped his arms around her. He held her as their thundering hearts raced side by side in arms she couldn’t hope to break free of, even if she wanted to. Except he would let her go if she ordered it. She knew that. It was her comfort, the thing she clung to. He would set her free if she commanded it. Right now, she would never be able to form the words. They curled together on top of the leather inlaid mahogany desk and she felt him purr like a wild animal, sated at last. He held her like she would save his life. Or his sanity. Like he truly needed her and that would never change. He stroked her shoulder, her hip, each caress a promise that could never be kept.

“Eve,” he whispered in her ear, like someone dreaming. “My Eve.”

It was a mistake, she knew that. But she didn’t correct him. She couldn’t.

 


End file.
